


Tricks of the Trade

by caravanslost



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Gen, Smaurent, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 03:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15476880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: “Does Mother know?” Laurent asks, wondrous.“No.” Says Auguste. “Only I know, and now you. And you mustn’t tell a single soul. Can you promise me that?”---A Smaurent fic.





	Tricks of the Trade

It was unprincely to kneel on the floor. Auguste’s mother had said so, which made it correct, and his father agreed, which made it law. 

But Auguste knelt for his brother. Laurent was still only four years old, and reached up no farther than his his waist. There was a tantrum coming as well—one that had been brewing for a week—and those were easier to weather when they were met face to face.

A delegation from Asmea was expected the following day—the first in thirty years, led by King Uthman himself. The importance of the visit had touched every single corner of the palace, and the Veretian court had been preparing its hospitality and grandeur for over a month. Every soul had been given some role to play, or some responsibility.

Everyone, that is, except Laurent. He was too young, and had been left quite alone. He had not taken well to his newfound solitude.

He stood before Auguste in his rooms, arms folded over his sliver of a chest, mouth twisted a defiant bow. In his hand was the red string that led to Bisou, the miniature wooden horse that trailed behind him everywhere. Laurent held onto the string very tightly, his fist coiled with as much anger as the rest of him. Worst of all were his eyes, which regarded Auguste with a cooler shade of blue.

That look came but rarely, and Laurent had never directed it at him before. Auguste ignored the twist in his chest and set about trying to fix things.

“Lemon,” he says, “I’m sorry. I won’t be long at the meeting.”

He was careful not to make a promise of it. He had done so yesterday and tempted fates that had called his bluff. Every meeting had run well into the next, and they didn’t see each other until dinner. There, Laurent had made a point of going to their mother, ignoring Auguste and barely eating.

Auguste had known to expect it. Laurent had developed an early and strong dislike for state visits, and had watched most of them concealed somewhere behind their mother’s skirts. He was a child of routine – more so than most children – and disliked anything that changed the order of the court or his day. He was also clever enough to know that during a state visit,  _later_ meant  _not at all._

“You haven’t played with me in a week,” Laurent sulked. “And they’re not even  _here_  yet.”

Auguste shifts on his knees, under the weight of his brother’s gaze. It’s an uncomfortable position. His clothes are unsuited for kneeling. The silk strains against the posture as though in physical reminder of his mother’s rebuke.

He ignores it and holds out his hands anyway. Laurent’s reflexes betray him, and Auguste finds small hands in his own soon enough.

“I would like nothing more than to flee the castle and take you with me—you know that.” He says gently. “But you also know the rules. I have responsibilities now. ”

There is no response for a moment. And then, sullenly, Laurent nods.

Auguste had turned 15 in the spring, and a place now awaited him at the right hand of every seat his father took. There were other costs, too. The attention of the court on him had sharpened to a dagger-point, watching how he donned the heavy mantle of heirdom on his shoulders. The attention of his father was even worse. The King seemed to expect something from Auguste’s every step.

“I liked it more before,” says Laurent, in a smaller voice.

“I know. So did I. But once this visit over, I promise you all my attention.” He says. That, at least, he can promise. “We’ll go riding every day for a week, just the two of us, and we’ll take picnics from the kitchen. Would you like that?”

Another outpost of resistance falls, and Laurent’s mouth untwists a little. Then, surely, a smile, breaking through his expression like first sunshine through clouds. Auguste feels himself settling at the sight. The two of them were not suited to quarrelling.

Eventually, Laurent says, “Do you have to go to this meeting?”

“You know I do.” Says Auguste, smiling a little sadly. “But you can come with me, if you like. You could be my right hand.”

“But I’m  _four_.”

“I know. And you’d still be the cleverest person in the room.”

The offer to accompany him is met with a vigorous shake of a very small head, which sends long curls flying in every direction. Instinctively, Auguste reaches out and tidies them back. He finds himself thinking that soon, Laurent will be too old even for these small acts of doting.

For now, Laurent is wary of the invitation, and Auguste thinks he has a fair idea of why.

“Will –  _he_  be there?” Says Laurent cautiously.

“Do you mean Audric?”

Laurent nods, eyes a little wider, the blue in them a little more fearful.

Auguste does his best to bite back a smile.

Audric was twenty-two and the second son of Councillor Laure. He was newly come to court, and the King and Council had deliberately positioned him to be Auguste’s companion. By pleasant happenstance, they got along well, but Auguste knew that his father was already planning his future Councils, playing hands that would pay their dividends after a generation, long after he was dead.

None of that mattered to Laurent, who only saw Audric’s hulking frame and his thornbush of a beard. He suspected that Audric was related to several monsters from his nurse’s tales, and at first sight, had decided that Audric had come to court to eat him.

Auguste paused for a moment. The faint shape of an idea came to him in the silence.

“What if—” he says, and then pauses intentionally. He watches as the hooks fall into Laurent’s curiosity. “—what if Audric can’t see you?”

Two tiny brows furrow in concentration.

“How?” Asks Laurent

“Wait here,” says Auguste. “Don’t move.”

He leaves Laurent for a moment and returns to his bedchamber. There, he makes a very noisy ordeal of rummaging through the furniture, opening doors and drawers, closing them loud enough for Laurent to hear the sounds.

He knows exactly what he’s looking for, of course, and exactly where to find it, but he wants to make Laurent wait. Laurent’s imagination works best when given time to steep.

He gathers what he’s looking for, and then briefly goes outside to the guards. A quiet word to Jord, a quick instruction, and then he returns to his brother.

He walks to Laurent with a scarf held reverentially in his hands, laid flat across his open palms, like an offering in the hands of a priest. It was undoubtedly a beautiful item, a silken gift from Vask and delicately made. It only remained consigned to his drawers because it bore too many colours for his tastes.

For what he’s about to do, however, the only important thing is that Laurent hasn’t seen it before.

“A  _scarf_.” Laurent observes. He looks up at Auguste, clearly unimpressed.

“No. That’s the clever bit, you see.” says Auguste. He dons his most mysterious smile and pauses again. Only when he’s stirred enough tension into Laurent’s expression does he lean forward to whisper, “It only  _looks_  like a scarf so no one will suspect its true purpose.”

“What does it do?”

Auguste leans closer so he can say, in a very quiet whisper, “It makes the wearer  _invisible_.”

Laurent’s eyes widen for just a moment before he catches himself, and Auguste smiles at the sight. He knows that soon, he won’t be able to play these games on Laurent. Laurent is a clever child, and for now still a child before he’s clever, but not for much longer.

“But then—how come  _you_  never wear it?”

“Oh, I do. All the time.”

“But I never see you wear it.”

“Well, it would be a poor invsibility cloak if you could see me, wouldn’t it?” He says, unfolding the scarf. It’s a long sash of a thing, and it curves downwards between his hands, falling near the marble floor. He looks to Laurent with a hint of conspiracy. “Would you like to wear it?”

Laurent hesitates, and then nods. His hand around Bisou’s string tightens so fiercely that his fist blushes red, but it’s clear that he’s trying to be brave.

Auguste begins draping the scarf loosely around his brother’s shoulders, one end behind his back and the other over his chest. Still, it’s far too big for him. He looks like a swaddled infant, his eyes and curls peeking out from the the fabric.

When Auguste finishes, he steps back. Then, the acting begins.

“Laurent?” He exclaims, and stands up to full height. He makes a show of looking around the room, and then frowning, and then going to check behind the drapes, and under the writing desk. “Laurent! Where are you? Where did you go? Come out!”

It wouldn’t fool anyone—except, hopefully, a four year old.

His amateur theatrics are rewarded with a giggle, pealing as brightly as the sunshine through the window. Auguste pretends to listen for the sound, and moves in entirely the wrong direction. He continues to pretend looking, using the mirrors around the room to keep an eye on Laurent’s mounting joy.

Suddenly, Laurent takes an end of the scarf and pulls it. It slides loosely off his shoulders, down to the floor.

“I’m  _here_!” He says, brightly as a kite. “It works!”

Auguste makes another show, this time of exaggerated relief. He comes back to the floor in front of Laurent and kneels again. Laurent examines the scarf in his hands with a newfound interest. When he looks back up at his brother, he is wide-eyed.

“Does Mother know?” He asks.

“No. Only I know, and now you. And you mustn’t tell a  _single soul_. Can you promise me that?” He asks. Laurent responds with a vigorous nod, sending his curls flying again. Auguste ruffles them and grins. “Shall we test it on the guards, then?”

“Yes!”

Auguste hasn’t seen Laurent this happy in days. The frenzy of the last week subsides a little in the face of his excitement, and the world tilts a little closer towards balance. He had always taken Laurent’s unhappiness as a matter of personal responsibility.

“Jord?” Auguste calls. “Will you come inside for a moment?”

In the few moments it takes Jord to appear, Laurent has wrapped the scarf clumsily around himself again. One end of it hangs to the floor at his feet, its bright colours a riot against the pristine blue of his tunic.

When Jord arrives, he stands in the middle of the room. He behaves exactly as Auguste had instructed him to do, moments previously. His spine is stiff, expression somber, and his eyes are firmly forward in Auguste’s direction.  _You must pretend Laurent isn’t there_ , Auguste had told him, and so far, Jord was obeying magnificently.

“You called, your Highness?”

“Thank you, Jord. I did. Can you tell me how many people are in the room?”

“Only you and I.” He responds, ignoring the hushed ball of giggles that erupts near his legs. “Does your Highness fear an intruder?”

“No, thank you Jord.”

“I can have the men check the room and its surrounds.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’

Then, Laurent moves.

At first, he walks closer to Jord, and does nothing more than stand still very near to him. Then, a gentle pull on one edge of Jord’s light blue cloak, and again, a little harder. Then, a chubby finger prods in Jord’s thigh. Jord might as well be made of stone, for all he reacts.

This time, Auguste cannot resist a smile. He makes sure that Laurent is focusing intently on his experiment before offering Jord a sympathetic glance. Jord gives an imperceptible nod in response.

And then, before Auguste realizes what he’s about to do, Laurent raises his left leg and gives an almighty  _stomp_  on Jord’s sandalled left foot. Jord’s eyes widen for just a moment, but he smooths over his surprise too quickly for Laurent to notice it. He looks down at his foot, but almost  _through_  Laurent.

Auguste vows, then and there, to double the man’s salary.

“You flinched, Jord,” says Auguste. “Is anything the matter?”

Jord looks back up, brow creased with confusion. “Well, your Highness – I could have sworn something was on my foot. But there doesn’t apppear to be anything there.”

“How strange. Are you sure you felt something?”

“I am.” He says, completely straight-faced. “Perhaps the room is haunted, your Highness.”

The sound of a crystalline laugh fills the room. In a fizz of triumphant excitement, Laurent tugs at the scarf. It falls at his feet in a kaleidescope of colour.

“Jord!” He exclaims. “It’s  _me_!”

_So much for secrets_ , Auguste thinks mildly. Jord’s eyes widen anyway. His dedication to the performance is such that he even takes a step back in feigned surprise.

On further reflection, Auguste might have to triple his salary.

“Prince Laurent!” He exclaims. “But—how?”

“I can’t tell you,” says Laurent, gleefully. “It’s a secret.”

Auguste clears his throat. “Thank you Jord. That will be all. You may leave us.”

Jord bows deferentially, and unless Auguste is very much mistaken, he turns away with the edges of a smile threatening his composure.

When he’s gone, Auguste hoists Laurent up, scarf in tow, and moves them both to one of the chairs by the window. He settles Laurent on his lap, the scarf draping carelessly over them both. Auguste tilts his brother’s chin up and gives him a fond look.

“Well?”

“Can I come to the meeting with you, Auguste?”

Auguste waits a beat, and smiles. “That all depends.”

“On what?”

“Do you promise not to stamp on Audric’s foot?”

For just a moment, Laurent huffs at the discovery of his plans. But then Auguste raises an amused brow, and Laurent smiles like the little devil he can be.

“ _Fine_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/Cookies/Comments are welcomed. Otherwise, come say hi and drop me a prompt on Tumblr - my username's the same ^_^


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